


Dirty Correspondence (or how Harry Potter fell in love with Ron Weasley in a day)

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Erotica, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Romance, Slash, The Quidditch Pitch: The Changing Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-05
Updated: 2006-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-27 16:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Written for the 8-06 Challenge.The prompt: Harry likes to send Ron dirty owls/memos at work.





	Dirty Correspondence (or how Harry Potter fell in love with Ron Weasley in a day)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Sabine for being an amazing beta!  


* * *

It began as a prank. A simple, playful, got-nothing-better-to-do-so-I-think-I’ll-prank-my-best-mate sort of prank. And it was after all one of the things best mates did with each other, to rile up the blood. To allow their inner child to come out and play. And it _had_ been a childish game, at first.  
  
Well, that was how it had started, but that most certainly was not how it ended.  
  
 **xxx**  
  
 _6:50 A.M._  
Harry Potter presses his ear against the door, the cold surface startles him, but he presses on, listening with all his might at what lies past the barrier.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He huffs; lazy and tired hands grasp for the doorknob, he’s been doing this for more than ten minutes and his hands are cramping up. Jiggling the doorknob has done nothing. And it stares at him, the golden knob, glinting against the early morning rays, as if taunting him. He reaches for his wand, clears his mind and searches within for any spell that will aid him.  
  
“Alohamora,” he says, pointing the wand towards the door.  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Sod it!” he screams. Defeated he sits on his bed. He won’t look at the clock that will only make matters worst. He knows he’s late, and there’s no point in finding out how late he is.  
  
There have always been ups and downs to living with your dorm mates from your childhood years. For one, you are already used to each and everyone’s foibles; knew their pet peeves and were accustomed to their little quirks that would drive others mad. But with sharing an otherwise small flat with three other men, there are times when Harry wishes he lived on his own. And those times are in the mornings, when everyone has to queue to use the one bathroom the little flat possesses.  
  
And Seamus always manages to be first, but he doesn’t ever play fair.  
  
“Fucking, Seamus, when I get my hands on him I’ll–“  
  
 _Creak. Creak. Creeeaak._  
  
The changing of weight on old wooden floors, and Harry is on his feet running toward the door. Ear pressed once more against the white surface.  
  
“Hello? Dean? Ron? Anyone?”  
  
“Harry?”  
  
Harry jumps, barefoot on the plushy carpet (a present from Ginny) and slams his fist on the surface, “Ron! Merlin! You have to get me out, Seamus has locked me  
in again.”  
  
“Blimey Harry, you’re going to be late for work again,” Harry hears Ron say, followed by the sound of metal being dragged across wooden floors.  
  
The door opens revealing Ron (Harry swears he’s grown an inch or two over night), wearing his Auror robes; new, bought this year; a present from Charlie. The light  
comes through the window at that moment, stronger than before illuminating Ron, and Harry gasps a little. _This is strange_ , he thinks, but doesn’t have the time to ponder the thought, or whatever it was that happened, or why his stomach felt only a second ago as if he’d gone down one of those Muggle roller coasters (not that he would know what that felt like, having begged Uncle Vernon one year to ride, but he’d been afraid to go in after Dudley promised he’d push Harry off when they reached the top).  
  
He can’t think, no there is only one thought in his mind. If he arrives to work late, Kingsley Shacklebolt will have his head on a platter and call it a day. As he rushes past Ron toward the bathroom he hears his best mate scream, “You’d better stand up to Seamus, mate. Otherwise, he’ll just take advantage of you.”  
  
“I know,” he screams back, “By the way what did Seamus use to lock me in?”  
  
“A chair, mate. I’m telling you, stand up to him. Or I will.”  
  
Harry doesn’t hear the last part, the shower’s on and all he can hear is the rushing water falling against the blue tiles.  
  
  
 _8:10 A.M._  
  
He’s late. Ten minutes late to be exact. Harry arrives puffing and sweating to work, mutters a barely audible greeting to a smiling Tonks. Rushing past the cubicles located in the Auror department, he makes his way toward his office.  
  
Dean Thomas brushes past him, a cheshire smile on his face, “Shouldn’t wank in the mornings Potter, and you might make it in on time.”  
  
“Fuck off, Dean,” mutters Harry.  
  
“Language, Potter,” the deep voice is instantly recognizable. Harry sighs and turns to face his condemner. Kingsley stands, tapping his wand to his wrist, “Ten minutes late, Harry. Make it four in a row and there will be consequences.”  
  
Harry nods, anger boiling like molten lava inside him. He catches a glimpse of Ron, who gives him a sympathetic smile and Harry doesn’t have the energy to return the smile. He walks into his office and closes the door.  
  
  
Other people might enjoy an office like Harry’s, it was after all a present from the Minister for Magic. A person could be comfortable in the surroundings, a dark mahogany desk, bookshelves, and Persian rugs adorning every corner of the floor. But Harry sometimes feels lonely in here, sitting in his drafty office (no warming spells will stop the draft), and away from the laughter and otherwise relaxed atmosphere that the Auror floor is known for. Harry won’t admit it, but he’d prefer to work out with the rest of the Aurors, even if it means giving up his large office. He’d love to have the cubicle next to Ron’s.  
  
When they go on breaks, Harry presses Ron to tell him everything he’s missed. And Ron is never unhappy to be the center of Harry’s interest and with great detail describes his adventures of the day.  
  
  
 _9:10 A.M._  
  
Harry is bored. Harry is bored and hungry. Harry is bored, so bored he’s hungry; in desperate need for something to do.  
  
He stares at his ever growing pile of paper work. _Pop. Pop. POP._ More papers apparate in front of his eyes, raising the tower to staggering heights. Out of boredom Harry conjures a ruler, stands on his chair and begins to measure the pile.  
  
“Blimey,” says Harry, “We’re up to six feet, now that has to be illegal.” As he puts the ruler away, there’s a loud _Pop!_ And the pile grows by another three inches. Harry shakes his head in annoyance, reaches for the pile and grabs as many papers his hand will allow before coming down from his chair.  
  
  
Twenty minutes later, and Harry Potter is ready to turn in his badge. He’d always thought being an Auror would be an exciting and fulfilling job, but there’s always paperwork to do, whatever profession he’d chosen and the Aurors were no different. If he’d never come face to face with the embodiment of Evil, he might have had nightmares about drowning in seas of paperwork.  
  
Harry throws his quill on the table and walks to his door. He opens the door a crack, managing to peek out from the office. Shacklebolt is nowhere to be seen, and Harry peeks around the room, eyes roaming around the cubicles. His gaze falls on the one cubicle with fiery red hair sticking out.  
  
“Anything you need Potter?” asks Shacklebolt, making Harry jump in surprise.  
  
“No,” says Harry and closes the door.  
  
It's at this moment, while Harry makes his way back to his desk, that the idea begins to form. He walks to his desks, pulls out a ragged piece of parchment and begins to write,  
  
 _Ron,  
Bored to sobs. How about we fain illness and call it a day?  
Harry._  
  
Quite proud of his note, he begins to fold the page, but by then the idea has begun to thrive. What if he writes a letter to Ron, but what if he sends it anonymously? Maybe a threat? No better yet, a dirty note from an anonymous admirer.  
  
 _Oh._ Now there’s an idea.  
  
Harry crumples the parchment in his hand and reaches for a fresh piece.  
  
  
 _9:45 A.M._  
  
Ron Weasley had been playing a game of tic-tac-toe by himself. Although the original idea had seemed interesting, it had long since lost whatever appeal it had. Now resigned to drawing a Norwegian Ridgeback on a piece of parchment, Ron decides perhaps some real work has to be done.  
  
Reaching for the ever growing pile of paperwork, his fingers come upon a ratty piece of paper. Ron looks at the paper suspiciously but opens it and reads.  
  
 _R,  
You are sexy. I think about you all the time, when I’m alone by myself, I think of you. And only you. I touch myself when I think of you, and think of your hot tongue licking a path from my neck to my stomach. I want you.  
Love,  
Your Secret Admirer._  
  
Ron’s cheeks are burning and he can’t help it. He rereads the letter, hoping that if he does this enough times it will reveal its secrets. By the sixth time, he’s determined that the, er, letter? Was delivered to him by mistake? Clearly the note was meant for someone else, another man whose name starts with an R, a Rufus perhaps, or a Richard.  
  
He doesn’t chuck the note in a bin though; gingerly placing the parchment under his cup of tea (empty), in case it threatened to fly away.  
  
  
 _10:36 A.M._  
  
Ron is hesitant at first, but he tears the second letter open. He notices the name at the top of the page, Ron. Now he can be certain that the notes are meant for his eyes, and his eyes alone.  
  
 _11:30 A.M._  
  
Harry yawns. Stretching his arms like a lazy cat, he leans on his chair and stares out into the false view of his window. He craves to be outside, possibly playing some Quidditch. He thinks he’d like that, the wind blowing on his face, chilling his bones.  
  
But in the back of his mind, what he’d really like is to write another note to Ron. He figured two notes would be more than enough, but perhaps one more. He picks up his quill and begins to write.  
  
 _12: 10 P.M._  
  
“I have a stalker,” Ron declares proudly. They’re on their lunch break, outside a pub that they all like to go to. It’s mostly a Muggle hang out, and they have to be careful. Perhaps that’s why they always go back, the thrill of being caught always whispering behind their backs.  
  
“What you going on about?” asks Dean as he chews on a couple of chips.  
  
The pub is busier than usual, and Harry hides his wand with caution. But the Muggles seem far more interested in their own affairs to notice what Harry has up his sleeve.  
  
“A stalker, and a pervy one at that,” says Ron, taking a sip from his drink.  
  
“Go on,” says Harry, trying desperately not to laugh at that moment. He is enjoying this far more than he’d expected, he wonders if Ron will ever figure out who the true author of the notes are.  
  
“Honest,” says Ron reaching for his pocket and revealing three pieces of parchment.  
  
Neville, who doesn’t work for the Ministry but still takes his break with his old friends, is the first one to reach for the notes.  
  
“Blimey, Ron,” he says, “There are just–“  
  
”Dirty?” says Ron, “I know, and that’s just the second one, the third one is the best. Whoever this girl is, she is definitely getting more excited as the day goes on. ”  
  
 _Girl._ Harry tries not to laugh.  
  
Dean wipes his hands on a napkin before reaching for the notes. “No way anyone wrote these, bet you wrote them yourself.”  
  
“Didn’t!” says Ron, “They kept appearing in my In Box.”  
  
“Clearly they were meant for someone else,” says Dean.  
  
“Swear on it,” says Neville.  
  
“Don’t be a prat Dean, my name is clearly printed on the last two. But if it makes you happy, I swear.” Says Ron, as he held his right hand on his chest.  
  
“So who wrote them, Ron?” asks Harry, “Got any ideas?”  
  
“No, but whoever this bird is, she’s a bit twisted.”  
  
“I bet it’s Shelby,” says Dean in between bites of his sandwich.  
  
“Shelby?” asks Neville.  
  
“You know, pretty blonde, big breasts, long legs . . . squalls like a bloody hyena every time she laughs?”  
  
“Oh, _that_ Shelby.”  
  
“Why?” asks Harry, for some reason, he doesn’t like the sound of this Shelby, “Why her?”  
  
“Didn’t she say you looked great in those trousers back in December, at the Christmas party? She spent the rest of the night stuck on you, if I remember, ” says  
Dean.  
  
“Yeah, I think I remember. Good man, Dean.”  
  
“What are you lot whispering about like a bunch of girls?” asks Seamus as he approaches the table.  
  
“Talking about your mum’s knickers is all,” says Dean.  
  
The events of the morning come back to haunt Harry and he pushes Seamus, before the latter can come up with a remark against Dean.  
  
“No,” says Harry, “Not talking to you.”  
  
Seamus only laughs and pulls up a chair, “Oh dear. Young Harry isn’t saying a word to me, how will I live?”  
  
“Fuck off, Seamus,” says Harry, “A chair? A bloody chair? I was late for work.”  
  
“Wake up earlier,” says Seamus, as he steals one of Dean’s chips.  
  
“No,” interrupts Ron, “I’m with Harry on this. Quit picking on him, Seamus. Third time this week you locked the poor bloke in his room.”  
  
“Actually Monday he glued Harry’s feet to the carpet, didn’t he?” asks Neville. Seamus hits him in the arm, “Ow, you did though.”  
  
“Well, either way, quit it,” says Ron.  
  
Seamus studies both Harry and Ron, “I see that Harry can’t fight his own battles anymore. Does he need dear Ronnie’s help?”  
  
Harry blushes, “No!”  
  
“Yes!” says Ron ignoring Harry, “And if you try another stunt like that again, you’ll regret it. You forget that I lived with Fred and George, think I know a thing or two about pranks.”  
  
“All right. Blimey. You’re all acting like a bunch of sissies. Here Potter, I’ll give you my word that I’ll leave you alone for a week,” says Seamus as he holds his hand out toward Harry. Ron clears his throat. “A month.”  
  
Harry takes Seamus’s hand and shakes it.  
  
“Great, now that everyone is friends again. How about Ron’s notes then?” asks Dean.  
  
“Hang on, sorry?” says Seamus.  
  
Neville leans toward him and whispers, “Dirty notes Ron’s been receiving from a mysterious admirer.”  
  
“Go on, keep up Seamus!” says Dean.  
  
“Interesting, you got them on you, Ron?”  
  
“No,” says Harry, but it is too late, Ron is already proudly passing the notes around the table.  
  
  
 _1:50 P.M._  
  
After more than an hour of discussion, every being with breasts becoming a suspect, they had not found the true identity of the writer of Ron’s notes. Harry sat in his office, smiling to himself. He thought he’d done a fantastic job in disguising his writing. And he bets, deep down that anything he writes would be much better than anything Shelby would come up with.  
  
He feels the draft in his room. Tomorrow will be a better day, no paperwork for one. And Harry figures there’s no real hurry to work. He picks up his quill once more.  
  
 _Ron,  
I want to feel you inside me. I want to run my tongue along your gorgeous cock, want to make you come. Want to watch you come all night. You beast. You are gorgeous, does anyone tell you that? I would. All the time, while we fuck.  
X_  
  
Harry laughs, and ignores the fact that he’s sweating and tries to push the images that he’s conjured up to the back of his subconscious.  
  
  
 _2:10 P.M._  
  
Ron doesn’t know whether to laugh or feel turned on. Well, the latter is achieved whether he wants it or not. He squirms uncomfortably in his chair, placing the note along with the others.  
  
  
 _2:40 P.M.  
  
Ron,  
You are lying on a bed. You are naked. You are covered in chocolate and I am using my tongue to clean you. I am licking your neck, and your chest and when I snake my way down to your cock, you shudder and ask for more. But I won’t. Not yet.  
X_  
  
“What are you reading?” asks Hermione.  
  
Ron covers the note with his robes, “Nothing. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be breathing down the neck of some poor sod in your office?”  
  
“Taking a break. What were you reading?” she asks again.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
  
Harry watches as Ron and Hermione talk and he’s seen them do this often. They are best friends, the three of them, after all. But, today, the image, it seems to annoy him. And he can’t quite figure out why. They used to flirt the two, Hermione and Ron, but now, now they’re just friendly. They dated, briefly and Harry never knew if he was the reason why they decided to keep their relationship platonic. Was he supportive enough?  
  
He doesn’t care today. He just picks up the quill and writes some more.  
  
  
“Ron, that’s not only dangerous but absolutely disgusting!” whispers Hermione.  
  
“Well, you’re the one who was so adamant about reading them.”  
  
Hermione moves closer, “Yes, but you don’t know who’s been writing them. They could be dangerous!”  
  
“The only danger I run is having a stiffy all day. Now if you don’t mind, some of us have work to do.”  
  
Hermione rolls her eyes, and when Ron isn’t looking she nicks the parchment and tucks it in her pocket. If Ron won’t find out who wrote the notes, she will.  
  
  
 _2:50 P.M._  
  
Harry writes,  
  
 _Ron,  
I take your cock in my hand, and you scream. I lie on my back and wait, wait for you to make your move. I spread my legs and wait. You curse, under your breath, and you lie on top of me. I can feel you inside me and it makes me, I want to come but not yet. You’re pushing inside me, and I feel as though I’ll die. Pushing. In and out. In and out. And you speed up. It feels wonderful, as you come inside me, breathing nonsense words into my neck.  
X_  
  
Proud of his work, he waves his wand and the note disappears making its way to his receiver.  
  
  
 _3:10 P.M._  
  
Ron reads the note and he wonders if anyone will miss him if he makes a quick run for the lavatory. He’s never wanked in public before, but there’s always a first time for everything. He doesn’t count the times when he’d lie at night at Hogwarts, cock in hand trying desperately not to be heard by the other boys. Sometimes they’d slip and he’d hear them, especially Harry. Harry would always make noises, and for some reason, Ron always remembers them, fondly actually.  
  
  
 _3:15 P.M._  
  
Harry writes.  
  
  
 _3:30 P.M._  
  
Harry writes.  
  
  
 _3:35 P.M._  
  
Harry writes. Seems he can’t stop. And he continues to write, every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day.  
  
  
5:00 P.M.  
  
They floo back to their flat, Ron, Dean and Harry. Dean seems like the only one who is exhausted, and Harry reckons that he was probably the only one doing actual work today. Shacklebolt would be proud, but most certainly not of Harry.  
  
  
Harry is absent-mindedly stirring the contents in a pot, standing in the kitchen. He can’t remember what he was planning to make for dinner (his turn tonight); mind busier than usual in a place so far away that Harry almost forgets he’s standing. He keeps picturing skin in his mind, and he’s nervous because that skin isn’t voluptuous, soft but muscular, harsh and freckled.  
  
He hears the floo; footsteps enter the kitchen.  
  
“Where’s Ron?” asks Hermione.  
  
“Oh hey, didn’t expect you here. Want to stay for dinner?”  
  
“I actually need to speak to Ron,” says Hermione.  
  
Harry’s shoulders tense, “He’s in the shower.”  
  
“I’ll wait,” says Hermione, pulling a chair. The floo makes another sound and Harry can hear Seamus whistling as he walks around the living room.  
  
Ron enters, the scent of soap around him and Harry inhales. Although something tells him he should not enjoy the smell, but he does it any way.  
  
“Hermione,” says Ron, “Didn’t know you’d be here.”  
  
“Need to talk you about those notes, Ron,” she whispered, but there was no point, Seamus has heard.  
  
“Oh, _yes._ The notes. So who’s the pervy writer, Ron? Any ideas?”  
  
“Dunno.”  
  
“What I don’t understand,” begins Hermione, in an authoritative tone, “Is why four Aurors did not think to use a spell to extract the identity of the, er, author.”  
  
“Give us a break, Hermione,” says Dean, as he walks into the kitchen, “Our brains were fried, Shacklebolt can be a real slave driver when he sets his mind to it.”  
  
“And besides,” says Seamus, “If you should be telling anyone off about being slow, it ought to be Harry. He’s the one being trapped in his room by unruly chairs.”  
  
“Sorry?” asks Hermione.  
  
“Oi! I thought I told you to lay off my mate, Seamus,” says Ron. Harry smiles, his back to the four, he is always happy whenever Ron stands up for him. He continues to stir the pot.  
  
Seamus rolls his eyes, “Ron Weasley, what happened to you? You used to be _cool._ ”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Fine, I don’t need you two. Come on Dean, let’s go get pissed.”  
  
Dean groans, “It’s a week day, Finnigan. I have work in the morning.”  
  
“Is everyone against me today?” asks Seamus, as he stands, glaring at his friend.  
  
“All right, one bloody pint. But we are not going to that seedy pub.”  
  
The two walk out of the room and Harry can still hear their arguing.  
  
Hermione stands, looking out of the room, making sure they’re all alone.  
  
“Great,” she says, “I was hoping they’d leave soon. Ron I need to talk to you.”  
  
“‘Bout what?”  
  
“Those notes, Ron . . .”  
  
“Why is everyone obsessed with the bloody notes? They’re mine and mine alone, honestly!”  
  
“I know that, but aren’t you a bit curious as to who wrote them?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Well, I found out something, Ron.”  
  
Harry drops the spoon, and swears under his breath. But they’re not paying attention to him, and he wonders if he can make it to his room without their notice.  
  
“How exactly did you manage that?” asks Ron.  
  
“Here,” says Hermione, handing Ron the letter she’d stolen earlier that day, “I tried a couple of spells, but whoever wrote them knows what they’re doing. I could find out one thing and well–“  
  
”I can’t believe you stole my letters!”  
  
“Listen, Ron. It’s a guy.”  
  
“What is?”  
  
“The person who wrote those letters, it’s a man, not a woman. I did the same spell many times and I got the same answer.”  
  
“A bloke?” asks Harry, in his best attempt at sounding shocked and appalled by the news, “You sure?”  
  
Ron’s reaction is much quieter. Whatever he had planned to say was now lost. Hermione looks at him sympathetically.  
  
“Sorry, Ron. But that’s the truth.”  
  
“Right,” says Ron, the only words he utters as he rises and walks out of the room.  
  
“He took it bad, didn’t he?” asks Hermione. But Harry is busy thinking about Ron’s reaction, which wasn’t one of shock, and that intrigued him.  
  
“You staying for dinner, ‘Mione?”  
  
“Uh, all right.”  
  
  
 _9:00 P.M._  
  
Ron is sitting on his bed, the notes spread across his Chudley Cannons duvet, and he studies each note.  
  
 _A bloke wrote that? Blimey._  
  
Now, Ron is straight, at least he was the last time he checked. But at this moment, Ron is very confused, because if he is straight then the news that a man has written these notes about him should be a complete turn off. Yet, here he is a little confused, scared, and (he’d probably deny it) intrigued.  
  
Ron decides that the fact that a bloke wrote those dirty notes, does not bother him is simply because he is horny. Because after all, thoughts of a bloke touching his private, ought not to settle so well with him.  
  
  
Harry is pacing in his room. Hermione left hours ago, giving Harry advice as the best way to handle Ron. And Harry had nodded, and said yes, and promised he’d make sure he’d do his best to be there for his friend.  
  
But the conversation was lost in his thoughts and now he only thought of Ron. Harry could not explain to himself, let alone anyone why he wrote those notes. At first it had all been a joke, but then as the day moved on, something inside him escaped. But why and for what reason, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that there was something he was not seeing, something plain and simple. Why had it been so easy to write those things about a man, or about Ron.  
  
  
 _11:00 P.M._  
  
Harry can’t sleep.  
  
  
Ron can’t either.  
  
  
 _1:00 A.M._  
  
It isn’t that Ron is thirsty, but getting up to get a glass of water might make him tired. Sleep does not seem to want to pay him a visit tonight. The house is dark and there are no sounds except the critters outdoors. He pours himself a glass of water, the note Hermione had stolen was still on the table and Ron takes it in his hands. He’s at the point of walking away when he notices the handwriting in the notes have changed.  
  
He reads the letter. Ron knows that handwriting like his own. Years of copying Harry’s notes, looking over Harry’s shoulder to see how far he’d gotten in an essay. He knows that handwriting very well.  
  
 _What is going on?_ Ron thinks, and his only answer is to ask Harry that same question.  
  
  
Harry, tired from pacing in his room is now lying on his bed. He’s lying in his boxer not carrying to put on pajamas for the night. His mind is busy, as it has been all day and he just wants to rest. But something is gnawing at him.  
  
Harry had never given his sexuality a lot of thought, his lack of girlfriends; that was easily explained by the fact that he had bigger fish to fry, like Voldermort.  
  
But now, he wonders, if perhaps there was another reason why girls were never a big part of his life. Harry is very tired, and there’s always been one thing that makes him sleepy. He hasn’t noticed that he’s his fingers are lazily stroking his stomach, not until now. He lowers them, hand snaking under his underwear.  
  
His first image is of a woman, the perfect woman. Beautiful, long flowing hair, great tits. But almost instantly the image changes and it’s completely the opposite.  
  
  
Ron notices that the light in Harry’s room is on. He’s vexed. He doesn’t bother knocking and opens the door, “Harry what is going on?” He asks.  
  
Harry is spread on his bed, hand tightly fisted around his cock. At the sound of the door opening, Harry curses and scrambles to cover himself.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” says Ron, turning away, “Sorry mate, should have knocked.”  
  
“You bloody well should have!” screams Harry.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Would the two of you shut up! Some of us are trying to sleep!” protests Dean from the room across the hall. Ron walks into Harry’s room, closes the door behind him placing a silencing charm.  
  
“What do you want, Ron?” Harry asks, annoyed/embarrassed; he’s sweating and the sheets are only making things worse.  
  
“Did you write the notes, Harry?”  
  
 _Oh, so Ron is going to get to the point._ Harry shakes his head, “No.”  
  
Ron sighs and sits on the edge of the bed, “Harry, I know your handwriting.”  
  
“Doesn’t prove anything–“  
  
”It was you, wasn’t it?” asks Ron, and Harry can’t seem to lie to him.  
  
“Yes,” says Harry, cheeks flushed, “But it was all a joke, honest.”  
  
Ron nods, “Of course.”  
  
They sit quiet, and then Ron turns to Harry, “Then why did you keep writing them? And why didn’t you tell me it was a joke?”  
  
Harry has a perfectly good and logic answer for this, but can’t quite seem to work it out. So he just stares at Ron.  
  
Ron shifts uncomfortably in his place and mumbles, “Harryarreyougay?”  
  
There is no name for the shade of red Harry’s face is now sporting, “Not sure.”  
  
Ron nods, “Well, those notes, uh, they were bloody brilliant. I mean the detail . . .”  
  
Not many people know how to take compliments, and Harry is certainly one of them. Especially when your best mate is complimenting you about your ability to write great porn.  
  
And the silence that follows threatens to swallow them both alive. Harry racks his brain for something to say, anything.  
  
Breaking the silence Ron says, “Felt like the author, knew what they were talking about.”  
  
“I’m not a virgin!” screams Harry, failing not to sound offended.  
  
Ron nods again, seems like the only thing he can do lately, “Right. But, um, have you ever done it with a bloke?”  
  
“Not yet,” says Harry, and the minute the words escape his mouth he’s shocked at his answer. He tries to say more but chokes on his own spit, he starts to  
cough, hands on his chest, heaving, throat stinging with every cough. His cheeks are blushing from embarrassment and he feels Ron’s hand slap his back, it hurts, more  
than helps.  
  
Ron hands Harry his glass of water. Harry takes a sip, feeling the cooling water seize his coughing fit. He’s embarrassed. Very. He wanted the comment to sound seductive, instead he comes out looking like a pillock. In the back of his mind somewhere, the conversation would have gone like this,  
  
 _“Not yet,” he would have said, staring at Ron with bedroom eyes, “Do you want to?”_ And Ron would have blushes but he would have agreed.  
  
He’s nursing his water and wondering if by some miracle he might be able to drown himself in the small glass. He’s uncomfortable, his erection bothering him, he can’t seem to find a comfortable position to sit in.  
  
Ron is staring, and it makes Harry even more uncomfortable.  
  
“Would you like to?” ask Ron. Harry chokes on the water he’s drinking, spitting water on himself and going on another coughing fit.  
  
“Sorry?” he asks, after finally catching his breath.  
  
Ron shakes his head, and begins to stand, “No you’re right, sorry. I didn’t mean it.”  
  
“But I did.” Says Harry placing his hand on Ron’s arm, coaxing him to sit.  
  
And they’re both staring at each other now, studying each other. They’re both blushing, both breathing heavily, both with sweaty palms, and very uncomfortable erections.  
  
Harry surprises himself yet again, a trend apparently. And he leans forward placing his lips on Ron’s. And they’re kissing, and this should be weird, Harry thinks, but tries to push that thought away as Ron’s tongue is licking his lower lip. Harry opens his mouth, inviting and Ron moans. After a day of sex being thrown at their faces, here they were, the two best friends.  
  
Harry straddles Ron, kissing him, messier, impatient. Ron runs his hands across Harry’s back, making goose pimples appear in Harry’s skin; sending the most delicious sensation down Harry’s spine to the small of his back.  
  
Ron realizes just how sweet and not weird, it is to kiss Harry, right at the moment when Harry is pushing him onto the bed. Ron struggles to take his shirt off, aided by Harry’s shaking hands.  
  
They are both naked, on the bed; touching, rubbing, kissing, inhaling, sweating, cursing and they bloody love it. When they both come, it’s as though something had been lifted between them.  
  
  
An entangled mess of limbs. They’re both panting, Harry rests his head on Ron’s chest, heaving.  
  
“That,” declares Ron, catching his breath, “Was bloody brilliant.”  
  
“Hmm,” mutters Harry, as his hand draws circles on Ron’s stomach.  
  
“Is this weird?” asks Ron. Harry shifts to be able to see Ron’s face.  
  
“It didn’t feel wrong, did it?”  
  
“No, no. But what does this mean, Harry? Are we gay?”  
  
Harry leans in to kiss Ron. When they break apart, it’s clear from the look in Ron’s face that he wants an answer, Harry sighs. “I don’t care what we are. All I know is I’ve always liked you Ron, whether or not I was being truthful with myself, but I did. Is that ok?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Harry smiles and continues to draw invisible circles on Ron’s stomach.  
  
  
 _6:30 A.M._  
  
Usually, whenever Harry wakes up in the morning he always finds himself in the middle of the bed. This morning was far different as he almost falls off the bed as he tries to hide from the morning rays. He feels a hand on his back and the events from last night come back to him. He smiles and closes his eyes.  
  
“Morning,” says Ron. And Harry feels a soft kiss on his back that makes him shiver. Harry turns to face Ron.  
  
“We’re going to be late if we don’t get up–“  
  
But Ron silences Harry’s protest with a kiss.  
  
“Fuck the queue,” says Ron after he pulls away.  
  
The door opens.  
  
“Listen Harry, I”m sorry about yesterday– Blimey!” says Seamus.  
  
“What is it?” asks Dean as he appears behind Seamus. Harry hides his face against Ron’s body, not wanting to look at his friends.  
  
“Do you mind?” asks Ron, “We’re in the middle of something here.”  
  
“Right,” says Dean as he pulls Seamus away, closing the door.  
  
“I told you!” they hear Seamus scream, “You owe me 30 quid, Thomas.”  
  
  
“We should be up,” says Harry, “Otherwise, who knows what Shacklebolt will do if I arrive late to work.”  
  
“No, I’m too knackered. And it’s all your fault.”  
  
“Is not, you were the one with all the bloody questions last night. If only you’d shut up, we’d have shagged faster.”  
  
“You were the one with the dirty notes,” says Ron.  
  
“Yes, I was.”  
  
“You know, I am particularly fond of the eighth note you sent.” Says Ron.  
  
“And which one was that?”  
  
Ron leans in and whispers into Harry’s ear, “ _Oh._ ”  
  
“I think,” announces Ron, “We ought to skive off work today.”  
  
And Harry very much agrees and tries desperately not to think of the contents of the eighth note as Ron’s hand is wandering past his stomach.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
